The Queen's Handmaid (29 page)

Lydia grabbed some bread from a basket on a side table and
glanced around for Simon. She should explain her absence from their morning work.

She found him in his office chamber, bent over his everlengthening lists. “Have you need of me right away this morning, Simon?”

He half turned and raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you arranged it so I am always in need of you, Lydia?”

The tone was teasing, but the words inched closer to that dangerous place between them and her heart skipped over a beat or two.

“I am going into the city for a few things again this morning. I will be back before the midday meal.”

He frowned but did not press her for details. “Come, I want to show you something first.”

In the courtyard, he pointed upward to a stone lintel above one doorway. A hairline crack had appeared, snaking down toward the frame. “Can you use your clays to repair it?”

Lydia stood on her toes for a better look. “I think we would be better served to have David’s men shore it up first. Then I can worry about the cosmetic repair.”

“Will you see to it right away, then?”

She glanced at him. “I told you, I am going out—”

“How are we supposed to finish this project, Lydia, if you are always running about the city?”

She said nothing, only cocked her head.

A pair of slaves slowed to observe their conversation, then hurried away when Simon scowled their direction.

He sighed, then shook his head. “Perhaps I do not want to share you with the city. At least go and tell David about the door frame before you go. He is in the storerooms, I believe, seeing about some supplies for the kitchen garden.”

“I will find him.”

She took to the underground storerooms, wandering past several, her thoughts on Simon’s outburst. At times he seemed angry with her, but she sensed the anger was born of some frustration. She felt it herself.

Only a few torches were lit and set in sockets at this early hour, and the murky corridors did not allow her to see far.

The sound of footsteps following turned her around. “David?”

But it was not David who rounded the corner to face her.

A flash of apprehension rooted her to the floor. Why would Salome come to the storerooms?

The king’s sister walked toward her slowly, her high cheekbones hollow and sculpted in the flickering torchlight.

“Enjoying your freedom, I hear.”

“My lady?”

Salome’s lips pursed into an amused smile. “Mariamme has given you a reprieve from her constant neediness, and now you spend your time enjoying the company of men.”

“I do not—”

“Riva has told me everything, Lydia. Do not deny it.”

Riva. Lydia’s teeth clenched against the girl’s name.

Salome was circling her now, her sandals scraping against the paving stones, eyeing her up and down like a market purchase.

Lydia raised her chin. She did not need to defend herself to Salome.

A draft of cold air from an unknown source slithered around her feet, and the nearest torch flickered and bent.

Salome’s scrutiny was more than that of a noble for a wayward slave.

It was there again, the pressure Lydia had felt in Salome’s chamber, suffocating and dark.

She was a curiosity to the woman for some reason. What had she done to create such antagonism?

You
bear
the
scrolls.

The words whispered through her from somewhere outside her mind. The same voice she had heard in the synagogue.

Her heart responded with words of its own.
HaShem, protect me.

The cold air fled, replaced with the warmth of a dozen torches. Or was the warmth only in her own body?

Whether external or not, Salome felt something. Lydia could see it in her eyes.

Her voice hissed through the corridor. “Who are you, little Egyptian?”

“I am no one. But HaShem knows my name.”

Salome drew back as though slapped. Then shot toward Lydia with a raised hand and bared teeth.

Lydia took a step away.

Salome did not follow. She leaned forward, but it was as though her forehead were pressed against a wall. She could go no farther.

Lydia fled down the corridor, into a dark storeroom, then turned to face the door.

The room smelled of wine and grain, and she could make out the dusty shapes of pointed-bottom amphorae leaning against the walls and casks of wheat. The taste of grain was on the air.

Salome appeared in the doorway. Her paint-rimmed eyes shone in the half-light.

A spark of memory exploded in Lydia’s mind.

Facing Cleopatra’s wrath. Running.

She would not run again.

“What do you want from me, Salome?” Her voice sounded strong, confident.

“I want to understand you.” She slid one step into the storeroom. Her hands were curled like talons at her sides. “Perhaps I want to destroy you.”

“What have I done to anger you so?”

Salome’s head tilted, like an animal examining its prey. “You do not yield.”

And then, in the space of one heartbeat, Salome flew at her.

Lydia cried out—a cry to the One God for protection.

Salome fell back, panting. “What. Are. You?” The words were weighted with outrage.

Lydia said nothing.

Salome came at her again.

Again, she spoke the Name over the attack, and again the attack failed.

This time Salome pressed her back against the far wall, her eyes unnaturally wide.

“Lydia?”

Simon’s voice.

Lydia exhaled, her shoulders falling.

But Salome was not finished. Seizing the opportunity of distraction, she pounced on Lydia again, tangled her hands in Lydia’s hair.

“Lydia!”

Simon rushed in, pulled Salome from her, and tore the two apart.

Salome hissed and scratched like a cornered cat, then eyed them both with eyes so full of malice, it seemed to fill the room.

And then she ran.

Lydia fell into Simon’s arms, images, fragments of memory, of being washed ashore after a shipwreck filling her mind. She was facedown in the sand, lungs full of seawater.

Simon clutched Lydia to his chest, his eyes on the doorway in case Salome returned. He would not let that—that
woman
near her again.

“What was that?” He stroked her hair, willing her to slow her breathing.

Another figure appeared at the doorway. Lydia shrieked.

“My lord—”

It was only Mariamme’s eunuch, Leodes.

“I was sent to find the queen’s maid. The queen has taken ill.”

Lydia pulled herself from his grasp, panting. “Where is she?”

“She was carried to her own bedchamber.”

“I must go.”

Leodes disappeared but Simon grasped her arm. “Lydia—why—?”

“I must go! Salome may find Mariamme next!”

“Then I am coming too.” And perhaps he would not leave her alone again.

In Mariamme’s chamber, Alexandra sat on her bedside, mopping the queen’s forehead with a cool cloth in a gesture of uncharacteristic sympathy. She rose at their entrance and handed Lydia the rag.

“It was only a faint. She had some shocking news.”

Simon stayed in the doorway, watched Lydia bend over Mariamme.

The queen’s eyes fluttered and her lips twitched with an attempt to smile.

“Sshh, close your eyes and rest, my lady.” Lydia turned to Alexandra. “What news?”

Alexandra eyed him where he stood in the doorway, hesitated, then flicked her hand to indicate he should close the door.

He shut it firmly behind him and crossed the room to the women, his concern still focused on Lydia.

“No doubt this is Salome’s doing, but we have learned that Herod left instructions. If he is executed by Rome for the murder of my son, then Mariamme is to be killed as well.”

Lydia sucked in a shaky breath and Simon shook his head. Unbelievable.

“The man is a fiend, truly.” Alexandra’s hands were tight fists at her belly. “He is insane with jealousy over Mariamme and determined that no one but him should ever have her.”

And did Alexandra regret giving her daughter to such a man? Had she even thought of her own part in the matter? Doubtful.

“We must keep her safe.” Lydia smoothed damp hair from Mariamme’s brow. “Her and the baby.”

Alexandra paced. “Already rumors circulate in the city of Herod’s death. My daughter must be removed from the palace before we know for sure.” She grasped Mariamme’s hand. “It must be immediate, before the baby is born and she cannot travel. And it must be far from here, where Herod’s spies will not see.”

Mariamme’s eyes fluttered again. “Cyprus,” she whispered.

Alexandra frowned.

Mariamme gave a little nod. “Cyprus. It is close to Judea, a Roman province now. The weather is fine.”

Her mother nodded thoughtfully. “And a short sea voyage, which is necessary at this time of year.” She patted Mariamme’s hand. “It seems our storytelling this morning has done some good. When the time is right, you will return with an heir. And perhaps Marc Antony can be persuaded to—”

“Stop, Mother.” Mariamme struggled to pull herself upright. “I am not going to marry Marc Antony!”

Alexandra’s brows were drawn together in fury. “If Herod is not dead now, he will be one day, my dear. You can be assured that your mother is working to see that day.”

Mariamme’s lips parted. “Mother, what new scheme—?”

She held up a hand. “You need have no concern for that now. We must get you safe.”

Lydia leaned in to help her. “How are we to get her to Cyprus, under the nose of Salome who would see her dead and Joseph who has instructions to make it happen?”

Simon stepped forward. “I will help.”

The royal women turned to him, as though they had forgotten his presence.

He forced out the words that must be for the best. “But you must take Lydia to Cyprus with you.”

“What?” Lydia looked from Mariamme to Simon, a question in her eyes.

“You have fallen under the wrath of Salome as well. And Mariamme will need you when the baby comes.”

Lydia looked between them, as though her heart were at war with her mind.

“Yes, yes, Lydia must come.” Mariamme was grabbing at her hand, her eyes wide with pleading. “I could not bear to leave alone.”

Simon tightened his jaw against the overwhelming urge to take back his suggestion. To keep her here in Jerusalem. How could he let her go?

“It must be tonight.” Alexandra was pacing again. “I will distract Joseph.”

“Sohemus.” Mariamme spoke the name quietly, as though the captain of Herod’s guard was a subject off-limits. “Ask Sohemus to help as well. He can occupy Salome. She is often trying to gain his attention.”

Alexandra’s disapproval was evident, but she could not disagree that the captain would help. “You two”—she pointed to Simon and Lydia—“make up some pretense about having to travel for supplies, some fabrics or paints or some such nonsense. You will leave with a wagon, and we will hide Mariamme.”

None of them spoke the obvious. Lydia had told him of the botched escape two months ago. They must ensure that the garrulous cupbearer Mazal was not loitering about to report what he saw.

Alexandra hurried toward the door. “I will write letters. Eudorus in Cyprus will take you in.” Her voice drifted away as she opened the door and disappeared into the corridor.

Simon bowed to the queen in her bed. “And I will speak with Sohemus.” His glance flicked to Lydia. The pain in her eyes took his breath away. “We will meet later.”

He left the room, his words echoing. He meant that they should meet later in the day. But would they meet again after all this was over?

Or was he destined to once again lose the person he had foolishly allowed into his heart?

Twenty-Six

T
he day passed in a haze.

Belongings stuffed into satchels. Letters written. Crates of clothing for mother and child stowed in the back of a wagon outside the kitchen entrance.

A messenger was dispatched on swift horseback to the coast, to carry a letter to Cyprus. Another to a village six miles south of Jerusalem, where transport would be waiting for Lydia and Mariamme. Simon would get them there, but another would take them to the port of Caesarea and onto a waiting ship.

The journey to Cyprus would take a week. Would the baby wait that long?

In the midst of the confusion, Lydia avoided Simon.

To David, she whispered a few snatches. The muscles in his jaw bulged at the news of Herod’s grotesque instructions.

“You must do something for me, David. The scrolls.”

His back straightened. “You have found the Chakkiym?”

“No, no, I have not. And I do not know when I will return to Jerusalem. You must keep them for me—”

“No.”

Her lips parted at the abrupt refusal. “You must take them to the Temple on the next Yom HaKippurim—”

“I said no.” He folded his arms. “It would be an honor, of course, but it is one I will not take. I know what your friend Samuel told you with his dying breath in Egypt, and it is what I have seen since you came to Judea. The mighty hand of the One God is upon your life, and to shirk your duty, to discard your responsibility—it is a refusal in the face of HaShem!”